It’s been three days the fever hasn’t left me,
even my pen seems to have taken its own life.
Whenever I open my eyes,
I see the open window,
but not you
yet your scarf’s shadow still flutters in the afternoon light.

Should I write a letter?
No
I’m slowly saying goodbye to my own body.
In my room these days,
no words enter anymore,
only dust settles
on the skin of old promises.

At the end of the night,
death comes and sits quietly by the window.
It doesn’t ask for tea,
only for the last word
the one I still haven’t written.

Before the final letter, I looked into the mirror once
no one was there,
just me, like a fallen Bakul leaf resting on my shoulder.
If you were to come now,
I’d abandon this body, this letter, this long wait
and I’d cry.
Yes, Rabindranath Tagore would cry,
like a river
when it reaches its final bend.

.    .    .